


Midnight in Manhattan

by impossiblepluto



Series: scenes from quarantine [1]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Parental Jack Dalton, Quarantine Shenanigans, memories of teenage Riley Davis and actual dad Jack Dalton, spy siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29054499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: Quarantining together, the team discusses fruit, colors, and a childhood memory.
Relationships: Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016) & Riley Davis
Series: scenes from quarantine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2131608
Comments: 29
Kudos: 44





	Midnight in Manhattan

**Author's Note:**

> All of my stories, unless otherwise indicated, take place in a universe which diverged from canon at some point around the season 2 finale. My Mac and Riley never lose their Jack. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! Hope you enjoy it.

Riley tips her head back, basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun hitting the deck. 

Of the many things that she’s grateful for, Mac’s yard and the deck with the picnic table, firepit, and view of the LA skyline is at the top of the list. She’d be going crazy if she were shut up, alone in her apartment with only a tiny balcony as a window to the outside world--aside from taking herself on walks, and worrying the entire time that she’d run into a maskless horde in the stairwell or elevator. Here, she's blessed with late nights under the moon with her family, and sprawling space for sunrise yoga. Between Mac, Bozer, and Jack at least one of them is waking the entire house at the crack of dawn a few times a week, with explosions, clanging kitchen utensils, and the shocking realization that one of them is an early bird. 

Though she might complain about the lack of privacy, the constant company, and some of the early mornings she’s been subjected to, she’s also grateful for the fact that she’s not living through this quarantine alone. The isolation would overwhelm her. The uncertainty and unknown can be crippling even with them around, she doesn't know how she'd manage alone.  She’s glad to share the chores and the cooking. And their company is comforting. Entertaining. 

Right now, Jack is sprawled in a lounge chair, dozing, only halfway through folding the sheets and towels that are on his chore wheel list for the week. Mac lays on his back on the deck, feet tucked onto Jack’s chair, absently plucking the strings of his ukulele. Since the package arrived a few weeks ago, he hasn’t stopped playing it, luckily for their appliances. It’s been enough to keep his fingers and brain busy. She doesn’t know how Bozer or Jack would handle waking up to the coffee maker and toaster laying disassembled on the counter again, even if he did put them back together with no explosions. 

Riley flicks the excess water off her fingers as she removes them from the warm water bath, and dries them on a towel. Picking up an orange stick, she goes to work on her cuticles. 

There is a distinct difference between bunking with her boys on a mission, on vacation, or because she had an extra beer around the firepit and is going to crash in the spare room or on the couch, and living with them during a global pandemic. 

For one thing, even during the longest, more boring, doldrum, stakeout of a mission, where they’re crammed into a crappy apartment with maybe a cot in the corner and hopefully a refrigerator, eating questionable takeout, there’s still some sort of end in sight. Get the intel and go home. 

There is still, intermixed with the dragging hours, too many games of War, and listening to the complete works of Willie Nelson, a purpose. A faint twinge of excitement as they stare at half-closed curtains and wait for their suspect to incriminate himself.

On a vacation with absolutely nothing to do except lay on a beach and soak up the sun, there’s a novelty to it. While declaring that she could lay on that beach, drink pina coladas, and never move from that lounge chair for the rest of her life, there is also absolutely no chance of that happening. Life will return to normal until next time.  


And when she crashes at Mac’s place, after a late night on the deck, though Bozer or Jack will insist on everyone sticking around and eating breakfast, gulping down the Dalton-family hangover cure, in a few hours they’ll go their separate ways. She loves her boys, but it’s nice to have her own place. 

She feels a little lost, drifting without purpose as the quarantine orders continue. 

She’ll be the first to admit to a strange sort of excitement when the shelter in place orders came down, especially when the team decided to quarantine together. The constant on-the-go nature of the job made two weeks off with nothing to do but referee rousing movie debates between Jack and Bozer sound like a vacation. 

That enthusiasm for the time off has long since dissipated. Days blending, as they slowly run out of things to keep them occupied.  


She never thought she’d be begging Matty for a mission. The world did slow down, at least for a while. The various Phoenix teams continued cycling through their turn on standby without being called up. That was almost more exhausting than going on a mission. 

Jack stretches, waking from his nap. He winks at Riley and picks up the next towel in the basket, folding it as Bozer bounds up the stairs. 

“Told you, you’d get distracted if you brought the laundry out here,” Bozer accuses, eyeing the lack of progress.  


“What do you mean? I ain’t distracted. It’s almost done.”

Mac snorts.

Bozer stares suspiciously at Jack. “It sure is taking you a long time.”

“There was a lot of laundry. I'm meticulous about my corners. I know how you hate wrinkles,” Jack protests, stacking another freshly folded towel onto the pile. 

"Uh-huh," Bozer hums, not convinced.

“I haven’t even coerced Mac into a karaoke challenge.”

Riley snickers to herself as she selects a color for her nails. She doesn’t know how Jack does it. She and Mac have been scolded by Bozer for incomplete chores more often than she’d like to admit, but Jack always seems to squeak by, like waking mere seconds before getting caught. His level of awareness even when sleeping is astounding. 

Mac’s toes tap against the seat cushion, keeping time with his playing, while Jack finishes the rest of his folding under Bozer’s studious gaze. He takes the laundry inside and ret urns to the deck as Riley puts the finishing coat on her nails. 

“Well, that took care of an hour,” Riley examines her nails and smirks up at him. “Only a couple hundred more to go.”

Jack swings his leg over the bench of the picnic table, placing his hands palms flat on the table and returning her smile.

“What?” Her lips quirk up at him. 

Jack taps his fingers. “You wanna paint mine?”

The ukulele hits a sour note as Mac cranes his neck, looking at his partner. 

“What? I can’t indulge a little bit? Remember that fancy hotel where we spent a week undercover? My hands have never felt that nice. You really liked that… fruity smelling hand scrub thing.”

“Mango,” Mac answers, rubbing his fingers across his abraded knuckles. “It was nice.”

“Really?” Jack swings around to look at Mac. “Thought it was papaya?” 

Mac’s nose wrinkles, as he sits up, laying his ukulele on the lounge chair. “No, papaya is… pungent. Medicinal smelling. Definitely wasn’t papaya.”

“Huh? You sure it was mango?”

“Yeah,” Mac shrugs. “Don’t know what else it would have been.”

“Guess that makes sense. Use mangoes in soap because they taste like soap.”

“They don’t taste like soap.”

“Oh, you can claim papayas smell medicinal but I can’t say mangoes taste like soap?”

Riley exchanges a glance with Bozer and chuckles to herself at their antics. 

“Got any mango-smelling scrubs, Ri?”

“If I do, they’re at home,” Riley shakes her head. “Wasn’t planning on living here this long.” 

“Alright then, that’s fair. Bozer,” Jack yells over his shoulder. “Add it to the grocery order: mango hand scrub. Oh, you know what? Get a papaya one too if they’ve got it, I want to test Mac’s claim.”

“Fine. Hey, Boze, add mangoes to the shopping list, so I can be right about that too and prove they don’t taste like soap.”

Jack rolls his eyes, and turns back, facing Riley. Hands against the tabletop again. “What do you say, Ri? Will you paint my nails?”

“Only if you guys stop arguing about fruit,” Riley says with a shake of her head and a small laugh. She looks through her collection of polish, pulling out several bottles. “I think I’ve got a nice clear coat, or maybe a sheer pink?”

"Oh,” Jack’s mouth quirks to one side and he sounds disappointed. 

“Did- did you have something else in mind?”

“Maybe something a little bolder,” he suggests with a nonchalant shrug.

It feels too deliberately blase, like Jack is hiding a nervous twitch under detached aloofness. But Jack doesn’t get nervous. Certainly not about her painting his nails. He wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t want her to. 

“Red?” Riley holds up a bottle.

Jack hums, shaking his head. 

“You could try matching the Shelby or the Stingray…” Mac suggests making his way over to join them at the picnic table, sliding in next to Jack, picking up an orange stick, and twirling it between his fingers. Bozer joins them, taking the spot across from Mac. 

Riley looks up for Jack’s color approval. “I do have a few blues.” 

“I was thinking... maybe like Midnight in Manhattan.” 

Riley blinks in surprise.

Mac and Bozer exchange a glance and then sputter with laughter.

“What is that?” Bozer asks. 

“Sounds like an overpriced cocktail,” Mac laughs.

“Or maybe a romance novel?” Bozer snickers.

“A sequel to Sex in the City.”

“It’s a legitimate color,” Jack grumbles.

“What color would that even be?” Bozer asks. “Neon lights and marquee signs?”

“Jack was a tile salesman,” Mac conceded. “He’s got a whole repertoire of crazy color names that he memorized in case someone ever asked him questions.”

“That doesn’t really sound like a color for a bathroom.” 

“Midnight in…” Riley frowns rummaging through her polishes, “why does that sound… where did you hear that?”

“Oh,” the disappointed note is back in Jack’s voice. “Nevermind. It was just… whatever color you’ve got is fine…”

Riley pulls out one of the last bottles near the bottom of her collection. Leftover colors from her youth that she hasn’t touched in years, turning thick and goopy, but she’s not ready to get rid of yet. Still possibly salvageable with a polish thinner or warming the bottle in hot water. 

The label on the top is faded but she can just make it out… “Midnight in Manhattan,” she whispers, looking up at Jack. “This was the… how did you remember that?”

“I remember things that are important.”

She rolls the bottle absently between her hands, thinking back. She was twelve and wanting to be older. Wanted to wear lipstick and dye her hair blue. And hated the idea of her mom dating. There was a steady parade of losers that her mom didn’t ever bother to have her meet, until Jack. Twelve-year-old Riley was terrified of being an afterthought, of being replaced. 

Riley reaches across the table, picking up one of Jack’s hands, Her fingers running across familiar callouses. Now, she recognizes them for what they are, the way his gun rubs on his hand when he carries his weapon, fires, and reloads. A symbol of his protection over her, over this family. 

Picking up an emery board, she smooths away jagged edges, concentrating on shaping his nails. Studiously avoiding his gaze. 

“I wanted black.”

“Oh, Riles, you were a rebel,” Mac teases.

“Your mom thought it was too dark.” 

Riley rolls her eyes and Jack continues.  “You were only twelve.”

“This was a compromise,” she reaches for the bottle. It’s a metallic-looking black, and when she twists the bottle in the light, the shade changes from purple to blue to green. 

“I never thought you’d accept that. Thought you’d throw it away or at me, or think I was ganging up on you or just siding with your mom so I could-”

Riley looks up, meeting Jack’s eyes, surprise written on her face. “This was you?” 

Jack’s eyes widen with the realization he's just revealed an over a decade old secret. “Ah…”

“You never said anything.”

“No, no, it was your mom. I forgot…”

“No it wasn’t, don’t lie to me,” Rileys warns. “I thought… why didn’t you say anything?”

Jach shrugs. “Didn’t matter where you thought it came from, just that it made you happy. Helped with things between you and your mom.”

“Yeah, it did,” Riley says softly. Pre-teen angst of desperately wanting to be cool, fit in, and appear older than she was and she thought her mom was actively trying to ruin her life. She remembers coming home, and the bottle of dark nail polish sitting on her dresser. Tentatively, painting a nail, sure that it wouldn’t look anything like it did in the bottle. That it would be thin and not cover well and not be nearly as dark as she wanted. 

It was gorgeous. She was thrilled. Her friends were green with envy, and Riley was stingy with it, refusing to share and leaving it at home when she spent the night at a friend’s house. Because it was special.  


Riley dips Jack's fingers into the warm water to soak.

“She never said anything. About it being you.”

Jack smiles sheepishly. “I asked her not to. It was more important that you guys patched things up than me trying to win points with you. Besides, I wasn’t sure if it had come from me, if you would have wanted it.”

“Yeah, I guess I wasn’t particularly welcoming towards you.” 

“You were fine. You were a kid who just wanted her family back together again. Not some guy coming in and messing up her home.”

“I kept hoping you’d turn out to be a loser and mom would dump you…”

“I remember,” Jack laughs. 

“But you weren’t,” Riley carefully mixes in a few drops of the polish thinner. “You were always doing things like this. Doing things for me and not expecting... How did you find it? Or think to look? My friends were always searching for this shade whenever we went shopping and no one could ever figure out where it came from.”

“I was at one of those… tile conventions," he winks at her. "Had some time to kill before meeting ex-fil. There was this little specialty shop that I’d seen earlier and it made me think of you. I went back and there it was.”

Riley swallows. He’d been on a mission. He'd been with the CIA at the time and he thought about her when on a mission.

She's astounded by the way he was always thinking of her, and still is. He had a way of making her feel wanted. Special. Loved. He's proven himself time and again over the years. His loyalty, his commitment to his kids, but she still finds her breath catching in her chest at the depth of his love. Of proof that love existed even way back then when she kept throwing it back in his face.  


“You painted my nails with it once,” Jack smiles at her. 

“I was kind of surprised you let me,” Riley laughs, pulling his hands from the soak and working on his cuticles. She doesn’t remember why she did it, or why he let her. It was a year or two later, and Jack was hanging around the house full time. And at the time, Riley was just beginning to allow herself to think of them as a family. 

“Same reason I asked you to paint them now. Cause it made you smile.”

* * *

“Alright, come on, bring it in,” Jack says, pulling his phone from his pocket and turning on the camera. He places his hand on the picnic table, dark nails shimmering. He gestures for the others to join him. “Gotta document the occasion.” 

Exchanging a look between them, the kids sigh and slowly slide their hands forward, joining Jack’s in a circle. 

Mac’s nails are a vibrant, swirling blue, Bozer’s a deep shimmering purple, and Riley’s gleaming green. 

Jack holds his phone above their hands. “Smile, Mac.”

“It’s my hand. My face isn’t even in this.”

“Yeah, but I can tell it’s not smiling,” Jack says, raising an eyebrow. 

Mac plasters on a fake, crazed grin. 

“Come on, for real, dude,” Jack looks at Mac's attempt with disappointment. “Smile with your eyes.... There it is. Say cheese.”

The three, knowing Jack can out-wait them all, mumble a half-hearted “cheese.” 

Jack beams, looking at the photo. "This is a keeper for sure. One for the family scrapbook. Scenes from quarantine.”

  
  



End file.
